


his lamb, by his side

by markothy



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Past Lives, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Memory Loss, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, even in a different life, lapslock, rook.. is having trouble escaping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-16
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-08-24 15:07:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16642553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/markothy/pseuds/markothy
Summary: it’s all a haze after that, except for joseph’s sweaty face dripping onto his, loose hair falling around them like some kind of privacy curtain.“you’ll join me at the gates of eden, my lamb. whether it’s this lifetime or the next, god will not let you leave my side.”and then everything falls away.





	his lamb, by his side

**Author's Note:**

> i'm proud to finally drop what is my first official contribution to this fandom, i am your cat bringing you a dead bird (this drabble) as a gift! 
> 
> a massive shout out to kim for beta reading this, and to ky & rita for following me down this rabbit hole, because i'm too shy to start a conversation with anyone already in the fandom!

rook never imagined succumbing to something so…  _ ordinary _ . sure, earlier in his life, he had assumed his death would play out something like his grandfather’s: quietly, humbly,  _ naturally _ , and surrounded by family. like a lot of things, though, moving to hope county changed that. the whole county was a hornet’s nest waiting to be kicked, a bridge waiting to collapse under their feet, and he, the new junior deputy, was the catalyst to set it all off, a rube goldberg machine of carnage and chaos. now, rook could only imagine his death in the worst way, through fire and explosions, body so thoroughly destroyed they wouldn’t even be able to identify him, tell his family, his brother, his - oh, god, his  _ mother _ .

so, no. this wasn’t what he imagined his death would be like, not in the slightest. in no corner of his mind did he think that within the cold, hard, metallic walls of a stolen bunker where he and the very reason everything above ground was a living hellscape were meant to live out the rest of their days so long as one doesn’t kill the other would be his final resting place. and in no way did rook think said chaotic evil cult leader would be holding his limp, fever-ridden body in his arms, carefully using what lukewarm water the bunker had left to soak a strip from one of dutch’s old shirts and dab it against rook’s heated skin. rook had told him it wouldn’t help, not since the fever’s gotten to his lungs, but this is joseph seed and he’s stubborn, foolishly so. 

after a couple more days, it surprises neither of them when rook’s condition rapidly declines, hanging on by less than a sliver. joseph’s been trying to convince him of something, though rook hasn’t had the mind or energy to hear much of it - probably convert him, baptize him in a frenzy so he can have a fighting chance at reaching eden’s gate, or some bullshit. rook’s been good about waving him off every time, but this time, this last time, he can’t - too tired, soul-tired, mind and body exhausted and heaving. so joseph’s forehead descends onto his, less gently than expected, and calloused hands cage his face, squish his hollowed cheeks, but rook can’t make himself care.

it’s all a haze after that, except for joseph’s sweaty face dripping onto his, loose hair falling around them like some kind of privacy curtain. 

“you’ll join me at the gates of eden, my lamb. whether it’s this lifetime or the next, god will not let you leave my side.”

and then everything falls away. 

†

an alarm clock squeals, wrenching rook out of his dreams. he squints, eyes adjusting to the dark. the bleeding red blur from the clock sharpens as his eyes refocus - it’s 5:30 am. from the radio in the kitchen of his small loft apartment, he can hear the excitable, melancholy horns of vera lynn’s “we’ll meet again.” it’s strange to hear, since it’s something the likes of his grandparents would listen to, but college radio stations will play anything. with a groan, he forces himself out of bed and across the wood flooring, cool against his feet. for some reason, today he feels exhausted - physically, emotionally, hell, even spiritually, if that’s a thing. he feels drained, and a little bit on edge, like someone pulled the plug on his bath a little too early, and now he’s shivering, wet, and still thoroughly shampooed. but he thinks nothing of it, shakes it off because he’s deciding not to dwell on it. this is just another day for rook, junior director of accounting.

it’s when he’s out the door, though, on the way to work with a breakfast bar haphazardly stuffed into his mouth, that he realizes today might not be just another day for rook, junior director of accounting. he’s about halfway into his routine commute, just yards away from the regular bus stop - rook can even  _ see _ the two kids huddling together with their coffee mugs like he expected, the usual single mom anxiously tapping her foot and checking her phone for the time again and again, the same old lady with her bright blue basketed walker. but something inside him shifts.

something outside him shifts, too, because his legs and body and all things rook are not heading in the direction of the bus stop anymore, even as the bus, right on time, pulls up to the curb. no, they’re whisking him away, and no matter what his subconscious screams about skipping out on work, his responsibilities, his  _ paycheck _ , they do not seem to care.

it feels like walking in a dream - his legs, entirely out of his control, lead him down endless city corridors, along sidewalks and through inner-city parks he never knew were there. come to think of it, rook’s never really strayed far from his regular path to work and back, to the convenience store and back. eventually, after what feels like hours of wandering, he comes to a stop at a crosswalk, the red hand flickering from the other side. fortunately, with a check of his phone, it’s only been about half an hour. not too late, if he books it from here - wherever  _ here _ may be.

body finally under control, rook takes in the surroundings - it’s an older, quieter section of city, mostly residential and family-owned businesses. across the street, narrow as it be, stands a church. simple, quaint, and perfect. under the waking city, the sun rising over the east bathes its white, time-weathered walls tinges of pink and gold. the gardens hugging the outside illuminate the rest of the space: delicate, white flowers sway so gently, so serenely in the early morning light that the whole building looks foreign, out of place where it’s shoved amidst the brownstones and concrete. the wrought iron gate, propped open invitingly, gives off the softest glow, and rook doesn’t even notice he’s crossed the street until he’s walking through it, warmth from the sun and the reflective metal dulling his senses. 

rook doesn’t know why, feet compelling him to climb the steps, hand meeting metallic handle of the massive, oak doors, but his soul tugs forward at the thought of entering. so he does.

it’s very simple inside when rook enters, mindfully slipping through the heavy doors and letting them close as quietly as possible. so pure, so untouched, it just seems like it sprouted up here, in this unexpected place, like a flower pushing through the cracks in a sidewalk. a single aisle shouldered by solid oak pews, each illuminated by a tall, stained glass window depicting some biblical scene rook vaguely remembers from bible study, follows a soft blue runner up a few steps, past the pulpit, ebony upright piano, and some red-cushioned pews reserved for the choir, up a few more steps, to the altar. 

a man stands at the end of this aisle, back turned, head lifted high and arms spread wide in front of the altar. rook’s soul gives another kick, more intense this time than the last, a lost, lonely child tugging at his sleeve to draw him closer, but he stays rooted in place. despite his efforts of a quiet entrance, the noise that comes with rook’s presence slices through the serene silence of the sanctuary. the man levels his head, lets his arms drop to his sides, prayer decidedly finished, and turns to him, beaded rosaries draped around each of his wrists sounding his every move. the golden light seeping through the stained glass illuminates his face, his wire-framed glasses, in a way most iridescent, most divine, and rook can’t seem to find his breath anymore. his heart threatens to surge up through his throat, lock him in a chokehold, and his knees feel weak, torn between bolting and melting where he stands.

“do not fear, child,” the man says, and rook’s soul _ clenches _ at the sound of his voice, feels dizzy, sort of nauseous, hackles rising at an attempt to - to  _ what _ ? his vision goes unfocused for a second before refocusing to a point; it feels like he can see everything and nothing, so painfully aware, down to the very finest details of the man in front of him, who’s descended from his place in front of the altar to drift closer to rook.

rook can’t really seem to read the expression on the man’s face, something in his soul says they’ve never been able to. from what he can read, though, it twists and flickers across his features; starts with confusion, then to stock, back to confusion, to acceptance, and finally, settles for a placid kind of warmth. rook isn’t doing much better - there’s pure terror encroaching on his heart, plunging him head first into a nightmare, but there’s still something there, something in the inky, swirling depths that feels calm; feels _ right _ . rook  _ hates it _ .

the man is closer now, so close - inches apart - until their foreheads touch, and rook must make a noise, must flinch something fierce, because immediately there’s a soothing hand lifting to his cheek, stroking with a thumb. 

“my child,” the man whispers on a broken exhale, voice low and private as if they’re not the only two in the sanctuary. it sounds soft, thinly veiled emotion slipping from his control, “god has brought you to my arms.”

and rook gasps, like everything he’s held so tightly in his soul cannot bear to hold back any longer, not in the presence of its keeper; joseph doesn’t move away - no, of course not. he just stands there, a steady rock, soft cotton of his shirt bunched under rook’s fearful grip, while rook is tossed around in the deep. rook doesn’t understand, crumbling like a ragdoll under the cryptic flashes of moments, feelings, _memories_ , that all cycle through him like some possessed powerpoint slideshow - he doesn’t _fucking_ _understand_ , but it _hurts_.

joseph hooks a gentle finger under rook’s chin and lifts so their eyes can finally meet, then lets his arms fall to weave around rook’s trembling form, cradling him impossibly closer. rook shutters, pierced through by those blue eyes, always so stormy before, but now there’s only love, sickly, sweet  _ love _ ; he feels another piece of himself melt under the warmth of his soulmate’s touch. the other hand soothes at rook’s side, like he’s reassuring a child. his face looks softer, gentler, and rolled up sleeves reveal toned arms, just as tattooed as rook remembers, but none of them the same - was it john’s handiwork again? no angry, red, and welted displays of sin to be found, either. rook briefly wonders if this life has been different for him, kinder to him. if  _ he’s _ been kinder to  _ life _ .

“god has brought you back to my side, my lamb,” joseph sighs, and it’s pure, divine exaltation, like this is everything he’s asked for, prayed for,  _ begged _ for. “and i will not let you leave my side again.”

**Author's Note:**

> rook, my sweet, perfect boy - will you ever be able to escape?
> 
> anyway, thanks so much for reading! feedback is always welcome.
> 
> my twitter is [here](https://twitter.com/shiiningfive) and my curiouscat is [here](https://curiouscat.me/shiiningfive)! also, my new tumblr is [here](https://rookseed.tumblr.com/), so please, _please_ feel free to yell about the seeds with me.


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